


Thorn

by raiyana



Series: The Reader Inserts [16]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Bilbo to the rescue, Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Gen, Platonic Life Partners, Transgender, transgender hobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Thorn is a boy, but Rose is not; Bilbo tries to help.Or, a look at the differences between Hobbits and Dwarrow when it comes to expressing gender.





	Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally requested as romantic!Bilbo with a formerly abused reader, which made it a challenge to write, and not only because I really do not care for Hobbits in the romantic sense... (in truth, I often find them a bit bland) but also because Bilbo in my head is a rather aro/ace person, and I don't tend to think of him as a romantic prospect in general. Thus, you get a pre-platonic relationship story.
> 
> Also, if the name says Thorin anywhere, that's a typo, he didn't get reincarnated as a Hobbit... I think.

“Missus Greenhand said you needed a cleaning person,” you murmured shyly, looking at Master Baggins of Bag End. He didn’t _look_ mad, you thought, tugging your sleeves further down your wrists.

“So I do, miss…?” he trailed off, and you fought not to wince.

“You can call me Thorn, Master Baggins,” you replied. “Thorn Underhill.” It _was_ your name, no matter how many times your family called you Rose.

“Thorn…” he muttered, staring at you. You could feel the heat in your cheeks, but you forced yourself to keep looking him in the eye, meeting his brown eyes with your own blue. “Well, then, Thorn,” he said, rallying himself to show you through the door, “let me give you a tour and then we can talk schedules.”

 

Working for Master Baggins was no trouble; you showed up twice a week, did your chores and left again, a few coins richer. That lasted until you got home, of course, when Dinodas took the money and yelled at you for not asking Master Baggins for more money. At first you had objected – Master Baggins was so _kind_ , you didn’t want to take his money if you hadn’t earned it – but the bruises had eventually taught you to take the words in silence.

Dinodas would never understand why his _wife_ – you hated the word as much as you hated the dresses he made you wear, dreaming of weskits and trousers – didn’t act like a proper Hobbit lass ought. You had tried to explain to him – even before you’d been married to the miller’s son – that you _weren’t_ a lass, not really, not on the _inside_. Your mother had laughed at you, aged five, when you asked her to call you Thorn instead of Rosie, but she had indulged you nonetheless – at least until she died when you were twenty, capsizing with her brother and drowning in the lake. That was another topic of contention in your life, your father and your husband both agreeing that it was your mother’s fault you weren’t a proper lady. If not for the fact that your father had threatened to throw you out onto the street with nothing, you never would have married Dinodas, and if not for the fact that leaving him meant putting yourself right back in that situation, you never would have stayed. Father had died a few years back, from the winter cough, and his will meant Dinodas now controlled all of your inheritance – not that it was a lot, and less so every year because of his drinking – until it could be passed on to your son.

Tugging your sleeves down, hiding the finger-shaped bruises, you got on with making supper. Dinodas would be in the Green Dragon all night, and if you were lucky he’d be too drunk to find you in the bed when he got home.

 

 

“Well, this is looking nice, Thorn,” Master Baggins said, startling you with his silent appearance at your elbow. “Oh, goodness,” he exclaimed. You stared down at the floor, shards of pottery from the vase you had been polishing all around your feet.

“I’m sorry, Master Baggins,” you whispered, feeling tears threaten. He would send you away now, send you away and Dinodas would beat you and no one would ever use your real name. Hiding behind your dark hair, you tried to flee, flinching away violently when he tried to grab your arm, losing your balance with a shriek.

“Thorn!” Master Baggins shouted, and you felt tears rolling down your cheek, staring up at him. You were so useless! Destroying Master Baggins’ prized possessions with your clumsiness. “Don’t move!” he said, but you hardly heard him over the loudness of your thoughts. Your hand hurt, you realised, holding it up before your face. A large shard of pottery had sliced into your palm, blood running down your wrist. Master Baggins reappeared, kneeling beside you and reaching for your hand, pulling your sleeve away before you could remember why he shouldn’t. The crimson and the blue-black skin looked funny together, you thought, giggling. Master Baggins gasped. Pulling the shard of ceramic from your palm, he quickly wrapped a bandage around your hand. “Squeeze,” he told you, so you did, wincing at the pain. You’d had worse, of course, but pain was pain, and it _hurt_. “Let me see your feet, Thorn,” he whispered next, but you simply sat there, staring at your wrist as though you hadn’t known what it looked like. Master Baggins gently touched your knee. You flinched once more, ending up nearly beneath the table as you stared at him, scared that this was simply kindness before something worse happened – Dinodas sometimes did that; pretended to care about your hurts only to inflict worse later. Master Baggins stared at you, his shoulders slumped, still reaching for your leg. “You’re bleeding, Thorn,” he whispered, looking so sad, “please let me fix it.” He reached for your leg again, slowly, and you let him lift it from the mess of shards. Your foot wasn’t hurt, except for a few minor scrapes, but Master Baggins still cleaned each one carefully with warm water and daubed some sort of ointment on the small cuts.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. He simply hummed, looking at you for permission before he reached for your other leg. Your flailing had resulted in a long cut up your calf, though it wasn’t deep, running almost from your ankle to your knee. You blushed, when he pushed your skirt out of the way, but his touch remained firm, only interested in healing, and slowly you allowed yourself to relax.

“About the vase?” he asked. You nodded, but Master Baggins continued speaking as though you hadn’t, “Or about letting me see the bruises he left on you?” Tears began rolling down your cheeks again, pointlessly tugging at your sleeves – no one wore such long billowing sleeves in summer-time except you, you knew – as you cradled your hand against your chest.

“It’s my fault,” you whispered. “If I wasn’t…”

“It is not.” Master Baggins said, in a voice that brooked no argument – it wasn’t at all like his usual mild-mannered voice.

“But…” you tried, only to have him shake his head at you.

“No, Thorn, no matter what he tells you, him hitting you is never your fault.” You simply stared at him, one golden curl falling across his eyes but no trace of a lie in their depths.

“But I’m not… not… _normal_ ,” you whispered lowering your eyes. Master Baggins finished wrapping your leg with a soft hum.

“You seem plenty normal to me,” he smiled, patting your uninjured foot. You shook your head.

“I’m not,” you protested; a certainty in your world, “I’m not a girl.”

“I know,” he whispered back, like it was a secret just between the two of you. “but why shouldn’t that be normal?” Reaching down, he waited for you to take his hand, helping you to your feet. You winced, looking at the pottery all over the floor. Master Baggins chuckled. “Don’t worry about the vase,” he murmured, leading the way to the kitchen and putting the kettle on the fire, “it was a gift from my cousin; I’ve hated it for years.” He gave you a smile over his shoulder, before he began to pull things from cupboards and pantries, plating up scones, a small bowl of blackberries – they were your favourite, and you eagerly took one, before you remembered that they belonged to Master Baggins and froze. He was humming by the stove, however, not looking at you. “Eat, eat!” he exclaimed, gesturing at the lavish afternoon tea that had appeared while you waited for punishment to arrive.

 

“You know,” Master Baggins said, when you had finished afternoon tea – he hadn’t even let you help with the washing up – and taken a seat on a pair of chairs in his back garden. “I once met someone like you.” He puffed absentmindedly on his pipe.

“Like me?” you hardly dared ask, not because you were afraid, but because it seemed impossible that there was anyone else like you in the Shire. Master Baggins nodded.

“A Dwarf,” he said, “who was born different than what he was. I later learned that it is more common among Dwarrow,” he added, thoughtfully puffing away and blowing a smoke ring. You stared at him. “A great warrior,” he nodded, when you didn’t say anything, “stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. They called him the strongest Dwarf in Ered Luin, you know,” he smiled, suddenly, and you thought he and this Dwarf had been friends. Maybe it was one of those who had abducted him some years back? “Among his kind, he was called a bearing male – that is, a male capable of bearing offspring if he so chose. Like you.”

You sat in silence for a long time, thinking about that. You could be a male, really? Not just because you thought so, but because other people agreed that it was possible? It seemed too good to be true.

 

Your musings were harshly interrupted by someone hammering on the door. You cowered in your seat, knowing who had come for you.

“Dinodas,” you whimpered. Master Baggins jumped to his feet.

“Listen to me, Thorn,” he said, his voice low and urgent, “you don’t have to go with him, you could stay here; stay with me.” You just stared.

“I-I don’t?” you asked, nearly begging. Master Baggins shook his head, giving you a small smile. Then he whistled. Behind the hedge, one of Missus Greenhand’s wee lads popped up.

“Master Bilbo, sir?” he asked, “Mam says as does ye wants us ter fetch the Shirriffs, sir?” Master Baggins nodded.

“Tell him, I have given sanctuary to Rose Thorn Underhill, who is fleeing her husband and suing him for abuse and violence,” he replied mildly. The faunt nodded, running off down the road towards Hobbiton.

“You mean it…” you breathed, feeling like crying again.

“Of course, I mean it,” Master Baggins said, wiping away the tears you hadn’t realised were falling down your cheeks. “I’ve more than enough room; you can stay as long as you like, on one condition.” You were afraid to ask, but Bilbo simply smiled and waited for you to gather your courage.

“What condition?” you whispered.

“You must call me Bilbo,” he said, “none of this Master Baggins this, Master Baggins that.” You gaped at him.

“Bilbo…” you tried, repeating it a few times. He was beaming at you. “Bilbo.” You could do that, you decided, nodding at him.

“And we’ll get you dressed properly,” he promised, “I’ve a green silk weskit that would look great with your eyes.” You smiled.

“Thank you… Bilbo.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this as a reply to a comment, but I thought others might like to see it, too;  
> I wasn't planning on writing a sequel, but I do believe that Thorn ends up staying with Bilbo platonically, and though he does get to meet Dwarrow, it is in the Blue Mountains, where Bofur returned at some point to become the overseer. Hobbits continue to think him an oddity, but more for living with Mad Baggins than for being male - within a few years, they don't really remember the time Mad Baggins kidnapped Rose Underhill, and only a few actually know that it's the same hobbit as the dapper gentlehobbit Thorn Baggins. Frodo will eventually appear, and the three of them live quite happily together in Bag End. Thorn dies of old age when Bilbo is 109(he's 96 at that point) and he's buried beneath a thorny rose bush next to Bilbo's parents at the top of the hill.
> 
> I'm glad you liked the story!
> 
> Ps, Dinodas moved far away to Bree where he unfortunately continued drinking. This led to an even more unfortunate incident in which he thought it was a good idea to get into a fight with an equally drunk Man. He died when his broken clavicle stabbed him in the subclavian artery, bleeding out in minutes. All property reverted to his widow - because he refused a quiet divorce, which led to a long hassle over 'Rose's' alleged defaming of his good name - and eventually it was inherited by Frodo Baggins, and after him the small smial in Hobbiton went to one of Sam's children.


End file.
